Select Poetry.

Hawke's Bay Times, Volume 7, Issue 385, 14 June 1866, Page 1

Select Poetry.

THE BATTLE FIELD. ||rilE battle rout is o'er, and tka evening shades are And silence is but broken Bv the nraver in anguish spoken, By the shriek of wounded charger and the roll of distant drum. Ee who rearmost in the conflict made a comrade’s breast bis shioid, Mow foremost is nursning, Down those gallant foes is hewing. On whom the brave taka pity when they ones begin to yield. Mew the merciless marauder prowls about amid the slain, From the scarce cold corpses stripping The clothes with red blood drippum : Alas! what wi.l not man do in pursuit of golden gain ? Flashing back his lantern’s light, and his savage eye-balls ■ glare, As the trappings he descries Of some chief who weberlng lies, With Uia heart’s blood on the greensward and the death damp on his hair. Oh 1 would that with the dead and with their wealth he were content. But that hand no pity knows. And aline on friends and foes, The wounded and the dying are Iris harpy glances hont. Bee, yon youth of twenty summers, on tho plain his Jim os are spread, ' . ' His wound, though 'tis not mortal. Hath brought liim nigh death’s portal. On a breast that never mure shall heave he rests his weary head. Bravely has he fought, and gladly would have breathed Lis last. If needful, but his done, The victory is won, And hope whispers that tho bitterness of death is surely past. Ho knows as scon as he is missed his comrades will not rest Till they searched the plain, To sec if amblst the slain Be lies, and kindly feelings lake possession of his hroast. Eo thinks of all the loved ones in hU far-off native laud, Ann from his bosom lakes, A miniature that breaks, The darkness with a glimmer as he holds it In his hand. That stealthy step ho hears not of tho thief bis trade pursuing. As to Lis Ups bo presses. And in fancy he caresses, The angel lit has won in years of faithful wooing. But ah! some rude baud seizes what is dearer than Li . life. Yet ho .yields it not though muttered Threat'uiag curses lew are uttered, And in the dusky twilight gleams a bright uplifted knife. A struggle short and silent, a gurgle and a groan. And the youth with hope elate. Has met ids bitter fate. Oh God i \is hard to die thus ingloriously aud lone !